


Pocket-Sized

by amproof



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-25
Updated: 2010-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amproof/pseuds/amproof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is tour bus sex and Kris is perhaps kind of a dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pocket-Sized

If the fans think they're the first ones to say he's pocket-sized, it just shows they haven't delved as deeply into his past as they like to believe because, honestly, it's not that hard to track down Jeffrey Dean, his full-back college buddy who first greeted him with the words, 'dayum, you small enough to shove in my pocket, aren't you? I could keep you for a pet!' There are certain advantages to it, like being able to share Adam's bunk. He has learned how to move noiselessly from his middle bunk, grabbing hold of the wooden lip that stops Adam's mattress from tumbling off and hoisting himself up until he can slip beneath the privacy curtain like water through a cracked vase.

The blankets are already off, kicked to the bottom of the bunk. He lands, a hand on either side of Adam's legs, and crawls forward. The blond hairs on Adam's legs brush against him as he moves. It is never completely dark on the bus. Slivers of light come and go, from passing cars, from the moon, from a reading light randomly left on. He can't quite make out the freckles that spread over Adam's body as if God was in a Monet kind of mood the day He made him. They appear as a discordant fuzziness against the muted pale of Adam's skin. He passes a hand over Adam's thigh, scarcely touching, urging the hairs to rise and tickle his palm.

"Adam? Are you awake?" He speaks from somewhere in the back of his throat, somewhere deep that hardly reaches his own ears. Adam's chest continues its gentle rise and fall. Kris's eyes are starting to adjust to the muted darkness. The freckles on Adam's left shoulder are no longer a blurred patch but a sea of individual dots, overwhelming in number in this one area, a reminder that this is but a fragment.

Sometimes he thinks that it would be easier to count the stars over Conway than it would be to count the freckles on Adam's body. He wonders if Adam knows how often Kris has watched him sleep, both during these nights on the bus and all those weeks in the Idol Mansion, and tried.

He never spent so much time contemplating the Conway sky.

He's not drawn to Adam because of his fabulousness or his swagger or 'alienness' or any of those traits the press and the Idol machine and even Adam's brother embrace as explanation for America's unbridled obsession.

"You only like me because I glitter," Adam had said to him once, half-asleep, which was when things like this always came out.

"If I liked people for glittering, I would have crushed on Cher growing up," Kris told him.

"I was so in love with her," Adam replied, and was snoring before Kris could razz him for being 'typical'.

In truth, he likes Adam because he is normal. Adam can talk to anyone, and Kris admires that. Adam is a guy who won't only listen to your problems, he'll offer a solution if it's wanted and have the intuition to know when it isn't. In a lot of ways, he reminds Kris of himself. Kris hopes this doesn't make him narcissistic. He straddles Adam's hips and grinds down with gentle persistence. His back scrapes the bus's ceiling as he folds into the space like a collapsed deckchair.

"Adam? Are you awake?" He nuzzles against Adam's ear, bending himself in half to do so.

He won't even say that Adam is normal 'apart from the eyeshadow' because that _is_ normal for Adam. He is his own category of normal, and to take this from him would make him alien as far as Kris is concerned.

"Adam?"

"I am now." His words are coated in the heaviness of sleep.

"Good." Their voices, whispering, are dangerously loud in the silence. Everyone is sleeping. Even the engine of the bus is a quiet rumble, as if its calling is to soothe them all into slumber. Although his eyes are almost completely adjusted now, he reaches for the switch beside Adam's head and turns the reading lamp on. Adam scrunches his face in protest.

"Bright," he mumbles.

"I want to see you."

He's pretty sure that Adam thinks it's one of his kinks to keep the lights on, and Kris is O.K. with this. He doesn't know how Adam would react if he knew the real reason, that he needs to see. He wants to be aware, every time, that he's with Adam. In the dark, he could pretend, even as he ran his hands over the strong thighs, the gently muscled arms, caressed the face that was too wide, kissed the lips that were too full, that he wasn't cheating.

It was a stretch, he knew, an exercise in denial, but one he persisted in nonetheless. He had the feeling that if he ever let Adam in on this charade, this delicate thing they had, which hovered on the precipice of addiction, would end. Adam thought that Katy was O.K. with it, that she _knew_ about it, all the result of little white lies, questions Adam had asked and that Kris had answered with silent movements that could have said whatever Adam wanted them to say.

It was difficult being on the road. They had each other. They were lucky and smart enough to know it.

Adam shifts beneath him. His eyes are wide open, and Kris almost feels that it is wrong that he can't see his reflection in them. He asks the question in silence and interprets the answer in the twitch of Adam's cheek. It's a marvel, the conversations they have without saying a word. So many of them now, like they've created a private language no one else can understand. Not just in bed, but for every day things, too, like how Adam knows when he needs the salt at meals.

His eyes never leave Adam's as he shifts up the inch he can spare to separate himself from Adam's pelvis. He prods at Adam's hips until Adam gets the less than subtle hint to raise up and, dammit, give a brother a hand with the boxers that they both know he only wears out of 'respect' to the others. Adam isn't exactly grinning. He doesn't grin during sex. But sometimes, he gets close. His eyes are crinkled in a way that makes it all but impossible to believe that he wasn't a holy terror as a child. Kris half-suspects that he made up the stuff about being in a theater group with Mormons, except he doesn't think Adam knows how to lie.

For the sake of time, Kris's boxers are crumpled in his own bunk, and he is naked, apart from the long t-shirt he wears to protect his back from scratches on the wood-paneled ceiling and to preserve his modesty as he climbs in and out of the bunk. He learned the difficult way that having someone, even Adam, pulling splinters from his back is not the best way to spend an evening. Adam is not quite hard, certainly not compared to Kris, whose cock is flat against his stomach. With each movement, his shirt slides against it and the cotton triggers sensations along the fragile skin that reach all the way up to heat his ears.

Kris holds his hand out until Adam extracts the lube that he keeps tucked between the wall and the mattress and upends it to coat the insistently waggling fingers with a stream of gel. Kris shifts again and reaches behind to push his middle finger inside himself. He knows to relax for the initial penetration, but he still has to remind his body that a good thing is about to happen, that it needs to make itself malleable. He is still surprised by how natural it feels, not just this preparation, but having Adam there, warm and angled, his hip bones nestled against the soft part of Kris's thighs. Beneath him, Adam groans against the muffle of his forearm.

Adam used to prepare Kris himself, but it's faster this way and there aren't so many banged elbows. Plus, Kris likes to watch Adam's reaction as he stretches himself, the way Adam writhes and his eyes go almost black, all this before anything has happened; all this because nothing has happened, nothing except Kris sliding along Adam's cock, feeling it slick between his thighs, leaning forward to push his own cock against it, feeling Adam's erection harden, and all the while working his fingers, searching for that place inside, brushing it, and feeling his jaw go crooked as if he has hit a soundless high note.

Kris watches Adam claw the mattress, clutching the sides, his desperation writ in the tendons that pulse in his arms. His mouth falls open. "Please," he says. He doesn't seem aware that he has said anything. Kris's legs are shaking from the effort of balancing in his half-bent position, his knees wobbling in the cushion of the mattress, the space forcing him down to support himself on one hand so he looks like a runner just before the starting gun. He is shaking from the effort of holding the position and from his own need that fingers will never fulfill.

Finally, Kris removes them, grabs Adam's cock with that hand, and rubs his thumb over the head, sliding the slickness down until it coats. He shifts, feels for the alignment, and begins the slow, steady descent. Adam bucks upwards, but Kris has anticipated it and moves with him, silently admonishing with a shake of his head. Adam's grip on the mattress is so tight that his fingers are no longer visible, curled beneath the edges. His head rolls backwards, neck stretched, Adam's apple thrust upwards.

At this moment, when he is the picture of desperation, when Kris knows that Adam would do anything in the world for him if he only asked, (he would never ask for anything/he asks for too much already) Kris rams himself backwards until he can go no further. The angle is awkward, but they both adjust. Adam slides down a bit, tilts his hips just so. His legs surround Kris's and with a gentle pressure spread his thighs further, forcing him flat against Adam's stomach.

Everything stops except two hearts, frantic and pounding. Adam ventures beneath Kris's shirt with a hand hesitantly plucked from the mattress. Kris arches towards the thumb that brushes his nipple. It pairs with a forefinger to tweak and roll over the bud. There is almost no space to move, no option except forward and back, almost no more than a rocking motion, but Kris spreads his legs as much as he can, and begins to fuck himself.

Once upon a time, he'd looked at Adam's cock and doubted that he would ever take it like this, but that time is nothing to him now but a dream that fades away in the forgetfulness of morning. Adam has unstuck his other hand and it finds a home on the back of Kris's neck. Kris follows the pressure downwards until his mouth is against Adam's collarbone. Gentle nips on this most sensitive of areas and he has to put his hand over Adam's mouth to catch the whimpers trying to escape. He muffles his own against Adam's shoulder.

Finally, hands slide down his back to grasp his buttocks, spreading, pushing, grabbing, squeezing. He is shaking, thrusting, almost crying. This is why they do this; it is more than their friendship, more than the affection and love they share. It is this moment when they are equal, when nothing matters but the two of them together. These few seconds when it is real in every way.

He will never leave Katy. He and Adam have never talked about it, but he is certain that Adam knows. Adam always seems to know everything. He tells himself that once the tour is over and he's back home, all this will stop, but then he looks at Adam or thinks about Adam and knows that it will never stop. For as long as he is alive, he will reach for Adam because Adam is light and perfection. He is the other half that makes Kris whole.

Kris is scared, sometimes, that Adam will catch a disease and it will pass between the three of them like a punishment because he doesn't see Adam as the type to settle down. Or, to be more precise, he can't imagine Adam settling down with anyone but him. Or maybe he can't see himself with anyone but Adam and is only deluding himself thinking that Adam won't commit to another lover. The latter explanation makes him feel less conceited, but no better about himself. This is part of the reason he often cries as the feeling of being on equal ground fades away. This, and the rush of euphoria because it's fantastic, this thing, him and Adam; they are perfect, they are together; they will always be together.

He has never asked Adam for his reason. He has only used his thumbs and his lips to wipe away occasional tears that neither will acknowledge out loud.

He opens his eyes to find that Adam isn't looking at him. Instead, his gaze is aimed at the edge of the bunk where the curtain meets the wall. It breaks from the velcro latch sometimes and creates a gap barely an inch wide, but it is enough for someone standing at the correct angle to get a good idea of what is going on. He doesn't bother turning to see who is watching them this time. The catty, triumphant smirk on Adam's face is enough of a clue. It is gone as quickly as it appears, a micro-expression Adam probably isn't even aware of, a blip in his untarnished record of shielding his feelings from outward expression. Kris knows that turning and continuing to roll himself along Adam's shaft would be unbelievably callous, so he doesn't turn because stopping is not an option, not when Adam's cock is hitting him in exactly the right place with each prolonged slide. He knows that Matt will stand and watch until he is sent away, and Kris can't do it without being cruel. It is easier to pretend he doesn't know Matt is there. Then Matt can pretend it, too, and that is a slight concession towards him.

Adam is pulsing inside him, like he has no intention of stopping, audience or not. Kris squeezes his thighs, his whole body tense, and Adam trembling beneath him. Adam is always so careful, but now eyeliner is smudged down the side of his face, and this makes Kris love him, too, and regret that these moments will end. Kris knows that he is the only one stopping them from being together permanently, but it doesn't make it any easier to have the control.

"Gah," Adam says. It is a whisper; it is a thought. It is all he ever says in this space. One day, he'll take Adam somewhere where they won't have to swallow their outbursts behind clenched teeth and strained tendons that stretch and vibrate in the throat. He comes as well, splattering his shirt and Adam's chest as Adam pulls him forward, swallowing any sound by taking it into his mouth as if he is the receptacle for all desire, as if this is the offering Kris must make to him, like the myth of cats stealing breath from children as they sleep. But Kris gives willingly, and as he shifts to line himself along the wall, his bared bottom pressed against it, he is squeezed in beside Adam, who moves his arm to tuck Kris beneath it. He rests his head against Adam's chest, feels the heart there, beating twice as fast as it should, feels his own doing the same, and he is unabashedly alive.

Wheels rumble on wet asphalt. The engine sings a bass tone. Adam kisses Kris's forehead. "Stay," he says.

Kris doesn't know if he means for now or for always.

He shifts until he can see Adam's face. His expression is serious but open. Kris won't go so far as to call it hopeful. There is none of the earnestness he gets when he encounters a journalist who acts like he has to prove and explain himself, as if being Adam Lambert is not proof and explanation enough.

Kris doesn't say anything. Just looks. Adam will take the answer he wants from it.

It's worked for them so far. It will continue to, until it doesn't, and they'll take it from there. But now? Adam's arms squeeze around him, and Adam's chest is warm and the light hair on it is soft and who cares about tomorrow?

  
The End

**Author's Note:**

> My first completed AI8 fic. So long ago... Thank you to karaokegal for the beta.   
> Download as a podfic in mp3 or m4a formats: http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/search/node/amproof


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